This was the time, perhaps, when Kenyon first became sensible what a dreary10 city is Rome, and what a terrible weight is there imposed on human life, when any gloom within the heart corresponds to the spell of ruin that has been thrown over the site of ancient empire. He wandered, as it were, and stumbled over the fallen columns, and among the tombs, and groped his way into the sepulchral11 darkness of the catacombs, and found no path emerging from them. The happy may well enough continue to be such, beneath the brilliant sky of Rome. But, if you go thither13 in melancholy14 mood, if you go with a ruin in your heart, or with a vacant site there, where once stood the airy fabric15 of happiness, now vanished,—all the ponderous16 gloom of the Roman Past will pile itself upon that spot, and crush you down as with the heaped-up marble and granite17, the earth-mounds, and multitudinous bricks of its material decay.
It might be supposed that a melancholy man would here make acquaintance with a grim philosophy. He should learn to bear patiently his individual griefs, that endure only for one little lifetime, when here are the tokens of such infinite misfortune on an imperial scale, and when so many far landmarks18 of time, all around him, are bringing the remoteness of a thousand years ago into the sphere of yesterday. But it is in vain that you seek this shrub19 of bitter sweetness among the plants that root themselves on the roughness of massive walls, or trail downward from the capitals of pillars, or spring out of the green turf in the palace of the Caesars. It does not grow in Rome; not even among the five hundred various weeds which deck the grassy20 arches of the Coliseum. You look through a vista21 of century beyond century,—through much shadow, and a little sunshine,—through barbarism and civilization, alternating with one another like actors that have prearranged their parts: through a broad pathway of progressive generations bordered by palaces and temples, and bestridden by old, triumphal arches, until, in the distance, you behold8 the obelisks22, with their unintelligible23 inscriptions24, hinting at a past infinitely25 more remote than history can define. Your own life is as nothing, when compared with that immeasurable distance; but still you demand, none the less earnestly, a gleam of sunshine, instead of a speck26 of shadow, on the step or two that will bring you to your quiet rest.
How exceedingly absurd! All men, from the date of the earliest obelisk,—and of the whole world, moreover, since that far epoch27, and before,—have made a similar demand, and seldom had their wish. If they had it, what are they the better now? But, even while you taunt28 yourself with this sad lesson, your heart cries out obstreperously29 for its small share of earthly happiness, and will not be appeased30 by the myriads31 of dead hopes that lie crushed into the soil of Rome. How wonderful that this our narrow foothold of the Present should hold its own so constantly, and, while every moment changing, should still be like a rock betwixt the encountering tides of the long Past and the infinite To-come!
Man of marble though he was, the sculptor grieved for the Irrevocable. Looking back upon Hilda’s way of life, he marvelled32 at his own blind stupidity, which had kept him from remonstrating33 as a friend, if with no stronger right against the risks that she continually encountered. Being so innocent, she had no means of estimating those risks, nor even a possibility of suspecting their existence. But he—who had spent years in Rome, with a man’s far wider scope of observation and experience—knew things that made him shudder34. It seemed to Kenyon, looking through the darkly colored medium of his fears, that all modes of crime were crowded into the close intricacy of Roman streets, and that there was no redeeming35 element, such as exists in other dissolute and wicked cities.
For here was a priesthood, pampered36, sensual, with red and bloated cheeks, and carnal eyes. With apparently37 a grosser development of animal life than most men, they were placed in an unnatural38 relation with woman, and thereby39 lost the healthy, human conscience that pertains40 to other human beings, who own the sweet household ties connecting them with wife and daughter. And here was an indolent nobility, with no high aims or opportunities, but cultivating a vicious way of life, as if it were an art, and the only one which they cared to learn. Here was a population, high and low, that had no genuine belief in virtue41; and if they recognized any act as criminal, they might throw off all care, remorse42, and memory of it, by kneeling a little while at the confessional, and rising unburdened, active, elastic43, and incited44 by fresh appetite for the next ensuing sin. Here was a soldiery who felt Rome to be their conquered city, and doubtless considered themselves the legal inheritors of the foul45 license46 which Gaul, Goth, and Vandal have here exercised in days gone by.
And what localities for new crime existed in those guilty sites, where the crime of departed ages used to be at home, and had its long, hereditary48 haunt! What street in Rome, what ancient ruin, what one place where man had standing-room, what fallen stone was there, unstained with one or another kind of guilt47! In some of the vicissitudes49 of the city’s pride or its calamity50, the dark tide of human evil had swelled51 over it, far higher than the Tiber ever rose against the acclivities of the seven hills. To Kenyon’s morbid52 view, there appeared to be a contagious53 element, rising fog-like from the ancient depravity of Rome, and brooding over the dead and half-rotten city, as nowhere else on earth. It prolonged the tendency to crime, and developed an instantaneous growth of it, whenever an opportunity was found; And where could it be found so readily as here! In those vast palaces, there were a hundred remote nooks where Innocence54 might shriek55 in vain. Beneath meaner houses there were unsuspected dungeons56 that had once been princely chambers57, and open to the daylight; but, on account of some wickedness there perpetrated, each passing age had thrown its handful of dust upon the spot, and buried it from sight. Only ruffians knew of its existence, and kept it for murder, and worse crime.
Such was the city through which Hilda, for three years past, had been wandering without a protector or a guide. She had trodden lightly over the crumble58 of old crimes; she had taken her way amid the grime and corruption59 which Paganism had left there, and a perverted60 Christianity had made more noisome61; walking saint-like through it all, with white, innocent feet; until, in some dark pitfall62 that lay right across her path, she had vanished out of sight. It was terrible to imagine what hideous63 outrage64 might have thrust her into that abyss!
Then the lover tried to comfort himself with the idea that Hilda’s sanctity was a sufficient safeguard. Ah, yes; she was so pure! The angels, that were of the same sisterhood, would never let Hilda come to harm. A miracle would be wrought65 on her behalf, as naturally as a father would stretch out his hand to save a best-beloved child. Providence66 would keep a little area and atmosphere about her as safe and wholesome67 as heaven itself, although the flood of perilous68 iniquity69 might hem12 her round, and its black waves hang curling above her head! But these reflections were of slight avail. No doubt they were the religious truth. Yet the ways of Providence are utterly70 inscrutable; and many a murder has been done, and many an innocent virgin has lifted her white arms, beseeching71 its aid in her extremity72, and all in vain; so that, though Providence is infinitely good and wise, and perhaps for that very reason, it may be half an eternity73 before the great circle of its scheme shall bring us the superabundant recompense for all these sorrows! But what the lover asked was such prompt consolation74 as might consist with the brief span of mortal life; the assurance of Hilda’s present safety, and her restoration within that very hour.
An imaginative man, he suffered the penalty of his endowment in the hundred-fold variety of gloomily tinted75 scenes that it presented to him, in which Hilda was always a central figure. The sculptor forgot his marble. Rome ceased to be anything, for him, but a labyrinth76 of dismal77 streets, in one or another of which the lost girl had disappeared. He was haunted with the idea that some circumstance, most important to be known, and perhaps easily discoverable, had hitherto been overlooked, and that, if he could lay hold of this one clew, it would guide him directly in the track of Hilda’s footsteps. With this purpose in view, he went, every morning, to the Via Portoghese, and made it the starting-point of fresh investigations78. After nightfall, too, he invariably returned thither, with a faint hope fluttering at his heart that the lamp might again be shining on the summit of the tower, and would dispel79 this ugly mystery out of the circle consecrated80 by its rays. There being no point of which he could take firm hold, his mind was filled with unsubstantial hopes and fears. Once Kenyon had seemed to cut his life in marble; now he vaguely81 clutched at it, and found it vapor82.
In his unstrung and despondent83 mood, one trifling84 circumstance affected85 him with an idle pang86. The doves had at first been faithful to their lost mistress. They failed not to sit in a row upon her window-sill, or to alight on the shrine87, or the church-angels, and on the roofs and portals of the neighboring houses, in evident expectation of her reappearance. After the second week, however, they began to take flight, and dropping off by pairs, betook themselves to other dove-cotes. Only a single dove remained, and brooded drearily88 beneath the shrine. The flock that had departed were like the many hopes that had vanished from Kenyon’s heart; the one that still lingered, and looked so wretched,—was it a Hope, or already a Despair?
In the street, one day, the sculptor met a priest of mild and venerable aspect; and as his mind dwelt continually upon Hilda, and was especially active in bringing up all incidents that had ever been connected with her, it immediately struck him that this was the very father with whom he had seen her at the confessional. Such trust did Hilda inspire in him, that Kenyon had never asked what was the subject of the communication between herself and this old priest. He had no reason for imagining that it could have any relation with her disappearance90, so long subsequently; but, being thus brought face to face with a personage, mysteriously associated, as he now remembered, with her whom he had lost, an impulse ran before his thoughts and led the sculptor to address him.
It might be that the reverend kindliness91 of the old man’s expression took Kenyon’s heart by surprise; at all events, he spoke92 as if there were a recognized acquaintanceship, and an object of mutual93 interest between them.
“She has gone from me, father,” said he.
“Of whom do you speak, my son?” inquired the priest.
“Of that sweet girl,” answered Kenyon, “who knelt to you at the confessional. Surely you remember her, among all the mortals to whose confessions94 you have listened! For she alone could have had no sins to reveal.”
“Yes; I remember,” said the priest, with a gleam of recollection in his eyes. “She was made to bear a miraculous95 testimony96 to the efficacy of the divine ordinances97 of the Church, by seizing forcibly upon one of them, and finding immediate89 relief from it, heretic though she was. It is my purpose to publish a brief narrative98 of this miracle, for the edification of mankind, in Latin, Italian, and English, from the printing press of the Propaganda. Poor child! Setting apart her heresy99, she was spotless, as you say. And is she dead?”
“Heaven forbid, father!” exclaimed Kenyon, shrinking back. “But she has gone from me, I know not whither. It may be—yes, the idea seizes upon my mind—that what she revealed to you will suggest some clew to the mystery of her disappearance.’”
“None, my son, none,” answered the priest, shaking his head; “nevertheless, I bid you be of good cheer. That young maiden100 is not doomed101 to die a heretic. Who knows what the Blessed Virgin may at this moment be doing for her soul! Perhaps, when you next behold her, she will be clad in the shining white robe of the true faith.”
This latter suggestion did not convey all the comfort which the old priest possibly intended by it; but he imparted it to the sculptor, along with his blessing102, as the two best things that he could bestow103, and said nothing further, except to bid him farewell.
When they had parted, however, the idea of Hilda’s conversion104 to Catholicism recurred105 to her lover’s mind, bringing with it certain reflections, that gave a new turn to his surmises107 about the mystery into which she had vanished. Not that he seriously apprehended—although the superabundance of her religious sentiment might mislead her for a moment—that the New England girl would permanently108 succumb109 to the scarlet110 superstitions111 which surrounded her in Italy. But the incident of the confessional if known, as probably it was, to the eager propagandists who prowl about for souls, as cats to catch a mouse—would surely inspire the most confident expectations of bringing her over to the faith. With so pious112 an end in view, would Jesuitical morality be shocked at the thought of kidnapping the mortal body, for the sake of the immortal113 spirit that might otherwise be lost forever? Would not the kind old priest, himself, deem this to be infinitely the kindest service that he could perform for the stray lamb, who had so strangely sought his aid?
If these suppositions were well founded, Hilda was most likely a prisoner in one of the religious establishments that are so numerous in Rome. The idea, according to the aspect in which it was viewed, brought now a degree of comfort, and now an additional perplexity. On the one hand, Hilda was safe from any but spiritual assaults; on the other, where was the possibility of breaking through all those barred portals, and searching a thousand convent cells, to set her free?
Kenyon, however, as it happened, was prevented from endeavoring to follow out this surmise106, which only the state of hopeless uncertainty114, that almost bewildered his reason, could have led him for a moment to entertain. A communication reached him by an unknown hand, in consequence of which, and within an hour after receiving it, he took his way through one of the gates of Rome.
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1
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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6
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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8
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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10
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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15
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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18
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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obelisks
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| n.方尖石塔，短剑号，疑问记号( obelisk的名词复数 ) | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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obstreperously
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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51
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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pitfall
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| n.隐患，易犯的错误；陷阱，圈套 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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